Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

5

Traveling against the rush hour traffic, Demarco and Beck reached Milstein’s office building on the northwest corner of Fifty-seventh and Lexington Avenue at five minutes to six.

Unlike most of the buildings up and down Fifty-seventh Street, the south-facing side of the structure was scooped out in a gentle arc, leaving a large area for an open plaza.

Demarco parked on the south side of Fifty-seventh facing east, in a no-standing zone.

At exactly 6 p.m. a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up and slid to the far end of the bus stop just in front of Milstein’s office building on the north side of Fifty-seventh. The Lincoln was a late model, cleaned and buffed to a high shine. There was no car service number displayed in the window. The driver filled most of the front seat. His head nearly touched the roof.

Beck jumped out of the Mercury Marauder, crossed Fifty-seventh, and blended in with the flow of pedestrians. He walked across the plaza and stepped through a revolving door into an opulent lobby that was surprisingly compact, about seventy-five feet wide from east to west, but only fifteen feet deep.

There was a small security desk just past the revolving door. Straight ahead six elevators emptied into a central corridor.

There were no turnstiles or security guards other than two men who sat behind the desk off to the right. A few people waved keycards at an electronic pad set into the west wall on their way out.

Beck stepped to his left, away from the security desk, out of the flow of people leaving the building. He watched carefully for a short man amidst the groups of people getting off the various elevators.

Beck checked his watch. Three minutes after six. And here he came, head down, slightly bent over, just as Olivia had described him. He was hatless—making it easier to spot his nearly white hair.

He wore a dark overcoat, tie and suit. Dress shoes.

Beck stepped in front of him before Milstein reached the revolving door, calling his name so that he would look up.

“Mr. Milstein.”

Milstein stopped, squinted up at Beck. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Olivia Sanchez. I’d like to speak to you about her.”

Milstein continued staring at Beck. “Are you a process server?” Before Beck could answer, Milstein answered for him. “No, or you’d have already served me. I don’t know you and I’m not interested in talking to you about Olivia Sanchez, or anything else.”

Milstein tried to step around Beck to get into the revolving door, but Beck blocked his path, saying, “It would be better if you talked to me.”

Even though Beck was much bigger than Milstein, the smaller man tried to shove Beck aside. He snarled, “Get out of my way.” Beck hardly moved, but Milstein quickly stepped around Beck and ducked into one of the revolving door sections. Despite his size Beck was just as quick as Milstein. As Milstein began to push the revolving door, Beck slipped into the section behind him, grabbed the door bar, and pulled back hard.

Milstein banged into the glass. Furious, he pushed hard to get out, but found himself trapped. He turned and yelled an obscenity at Beck. Beck shoved the revolving door forward, smacking Milstein with the heavy slab of glass, sending Milstein sprawling out onto the plaza. Beck followed quickly and lifted Milstein up by his right arm, pulling the smaller man nearly off his feet. He spun and pinned Milstein against the wall next to the revolving door.

He’d done it so swiftly that it almost looked as if Beck had helped a fallen man back to his feet. But the flurry of motion caught the eye of Milstein’s driver. When he saw Milstein fall, he quickly got out of the car to see what was going on with his boss.

Beck pinned Milstein firmly against the wall with his forearm and elbow.

“I asked you nicely, now I’m telling you. I’m going to talk to you about Olivia Sanchez. It won’t take much time. I suggest you answer my questions. It’ll be much easier than the alternative.”

Milstein ignored Beck, looking past him. Beck guessed that Milstein’s bodyguard was heading his way, because the smaller man threatened him, “Take your goddamn hands off me or I’ll have you arrested. My driver is an ex-cop and he’s…”

Beck cut him off, “If you’re smart, you’ll tell him to get back in the car.”

Instead, Milstein yelled over Beck’s shoulder, “Walter. Walter, get over here and get this son of a bitch off me.”

Beck turned, let go of Milstein and stepped forward a few paces to meet the bodyguard, a big man, pear-shaped, wide-hipped, with long arms and plenty of bulk. Beck figured him to be close to six foot six, at least two hundred fifty pounds. He came straight at Beck.

Beck pointed at him and said, “If you touch me I’ll put you down. If you pull your gun, I’ll kill you.”

For a moment the threats confused the big man, but quickly angered him enough so that he came at Beck with surprising speed, rearing back his right fist aimed at Beck’s face.

Beck didn’t duck or even blink. He leaned to his right and let the punch move past his cheek, then pivoted, grabbed the big man’s right wrist with his right hand, and punched him hard on the back of his arm just above the elbow, hitting a bundle of nerves that paralyzed the bodyguard’s arm and caused sharp, intense pain.

Beck turned the paralyzed arm at the wrist, shoved at the back of the man’s shoulder and swept the bodyguard’s right leg out from under him. The ex-cop went down hard onto his left knee.

Beck kept his grip on the arm and could have twisted the man’s shoulder out of the socket, but instead he kept the arm levered high, leaned close, and spoke into the bodyguard’s ear.

“You’re lucky you still have an arm you can use. I should have you arrested for assault and end your fucking career, but you’re just doing your job for this asshole, so we’ll let this one go. Don’t make this mistake again. Don’t ever come at me again, you understand?”

Walter nodded, wincing against the pain.

“I’m going to let you stand up now. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Beck dropped the arm. Walter grabbed his shoulder, remaining down on one knee, not moving, waiting for the pain to subside.

Beck straightened up and turned to Milstein, who hadn’t moved from the wall. “Take care of your man here. Next time I see you, I suggest you talk to me.”

Beck had kept his voice down. A small crowd had gathered around Beck and Walter, but nobody seemed to know what to do, if anything. Whatever happened seemed to be over. The big man was slowly rising to his feet, holding his shoulder.

Beck drifted away to his right, stepping to the ramp that slanted down onto Lexington Avenue.

He blended in with the sidewalk pedestrians and disappeared, heading uptown, out of sight to anyone in front of the building.

Demarco had watched carefully from his parking spot across the street, never for a moment worried that Beck would need his help with the bodyguard. As soon as Beck headed uptown on foot, he pulled out onto Fifty-seventh, immediately turning right, heading downtown with the one-way traffic on Lexington. He took the first right going west and accelerated toward Park Avenue. By the time he had gone one block on Park, he spotted Beck coming his way. Beck slipped into the Mercury.

“That was fun.”

“Big bastard, wasn’t he?” said Demarco.

“Yeah. It helps when you surprise them. Of course, I knew if it went wrong you’d be right there to jump in.”

“’Cept I don’t like leaving the car in a no-standing spot, so, you know.”

“In other words, the car is more important.”

Demarco tipped his head, shrugged, and asked, “Now what?”

“Now we escalate. That little cocksucker Milstein is an asshole.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“What? That he’s an asshole, or that we have to take this to the next step?”

“Just a figure of speech.”

“Uh-huh. You hungry?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. We seem to have skipped lunch.”

“Let’s see, where’s a decent place to eat in this shit neighborhood? Hey, there’s a burger place over on Sixtieth or somewhere. You want a burger?”

Demarco made a face.

“Come on.”

“If you insist, James.”

“See if you can find a parking spot somewhere.”

As Demarco began his search in the crowded neighborhood, Beck pulled out his cell phone and punched a speed-dial number. When the phone answered, he said, “Ciro. It’s me.”

Demarco listened to Beck’s side of the conversation, which ended with Beck giving Ciro Baldassare instructions on where to meet them.

“Ciro?”

Beck turned to Demarco. “Hey, man, I don’t want to wrestle with that big son of a bitch again.”

Demarco pursed his lips. “Pulling out the heavy artillery already?”

“He’s actually in the city. One of his customers is in over his head on his football bets.”

“God help him.”

“I don’t think it’ll be too bad. It’s a young guy. His father owns a restaurant downtown. Ciro just had a talk with Daddy about his boy’s gambling debt.”

“Does Daddy still have a restaurant?”

Beck smiled. “You know what Ciro once told me is the hardest part of running his gambling operation?”

“What?”

“Moving all the money around. All that cash. Picking up the cash from the losers and bringing it to the winners. It’s mostly a messenger service with guys tough enough to walk around with thousands and thousands in green.”

“With Ciro behind it all so nobody gets any ideas about who that cash belongs to.”

“Exactly.”

Just then Demarco spotted a space in front of a Park Avenue apartment building as a cab pulled away. Demarco deftly parallel parked the Mercury in one move, despite the fact that there was a brass plaque atop a stanchion set in front of the building entrance announcing NO PARKING.

Beck reached out his window and moved the stanchion out of the way so he could open his door. A doorman was already rushing out to tell Demarco Jones and James Beck they couldn’t park there. Every spot on the block was filled except for the space in front of the white-glove Park Avenue building.

Beck stood waiting for the doorman. Demarco walked around the front of the Mercury and leaned back on its shiny front fender. The doorman started to say something, saw who he was talking to, stopped, then said, “There’s elderly people in this building. In wheelchairs. You’re blocking the entrance.”

Beck reached out and lifted the lapel of the man’s uniform coat so he could see the name sewn onto the pocket.

“Is that right, Peter?”

“Yes.”

“Who made that nice sign for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that real brass?”

“Yes. I think so. Listen, you can’t…”

“You think having a brass sign makes it true?”

“You can’t park there.”

“Yes I can. Peter.”

“You’re blocking the entrance.”

Beck raised a hand. “Take your bullshit and your little sign and go back in your building. You get an old rich person in a wheelchair wants to come in, you hustle your ass out here and roll ’em to the corner, where there’s no curb; roll ’em up nice and easy, and haul them in. And make goddamn sure nobody bumps into my car getting in or out of a cab. Or a fucking limo. Or a delivery truck. Or anything. You got it? Peter.”

The doorman didn’t say anything.

“When’s your shift over?”

“Midnight.”

“Good. I’ll be back before then. Keep an eye on things.”

As they walked away Beck said to Demarco, “More assholes.”

6

Instead of letting Walter Pearce drop him off at the front entrance to his building, Frederick Milstein rode with him into the underground garage where they kept the car.

Even though he couldn’t have cared less, Milstein asked, “You sure you’re okay, Walter?”

“I’m all right. My arm and shoulder will be sore in the morning, but only because that guy held back. He knew what he was doing. Never been hit like that on the back of my arm. Still stings. What’s somebody like that doing around you Mr. Milstein? Who the hell was he?”

Milstein lied without hesitation. “I have no idea, but I intend to find out.”

They stepped out of the car. Walter handed the key to the parking attendant and they walked through the garage to the building’s service entrance.

“You need to know who he is. And we need to be prepared.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means at least me and another man, both of us armed. I wouldn’t take any chances, Mr. Milstein. I heard him say he was intending to talk to you.”

“All right, all right, I’ll look into it. Are you okay for the walk tonight?”

“Yes, sir. I’m going to get some dinner. I’ll meet you in the lobby at the usual time.”

Walter turned and headed back out to the long driveway that opened onto Eightieth Street. Milstein walked through the storage and laundry areas to the building’s lobby and waited for the elevator, his mouth moving involuntarily, propelled by anger and confusion and a fear he didn’t want to admit feeling. Whoever that man was, Milstein was shocked at how easily he’d handled Walter.

The elevator door opened. One of the amiable doormen greeted Milstein with a respectful “Good evening, sir.”

Milstein stepped onto the elevator, grimacing, shoving his gloves into his pockets. When the elevator man saw Milstein’s face he pressed fourteen, looked forward, and didn’t say another word.

Milstein’s wife had gone out to dinner with a friend. The housekeeper appeared from out of the kitchen the moment she heard Milstein enter the apartment.

She already had her coat on. Her way of telling Milstein he was later than usual and she wasn’t going to spend one more second on the job.

“Your dinner is in the microwave, Mr. M. Just turn it on for two minutes and you’re all set. Mrs. Milstein said she’d be home around ten. I left a red wine out for you.”

Milstein hated that “Mr. M” title. Where the fuck did she get the idea she could call him that? He didn’t bother to look at her or answer her as he dropped his coat on the chair in the foyer and walked into the living room.

He headed straight for the phone on the ornate, leather-covered desk that occupied the corner of the room. The only light in the room was from the streetlights outside, another annoyance. Lazy bitch couldn’t even turn on a fucking light for him.

He snapped on the desk lamp, revealing overstuffed couches in a gold brocade fabric, oil paintings of Hudson Valley landscapes, plush carpeting, and porcelain figurines resting on every end table, on bookshelves, as well as on the fireplace mantel.

It was his wife’s idea of sophisticated Upper East Side decorating. Milstein never really noticed it much one way or the other, but tonight the room felt stifling, almost claustrophobic. He had to stop and catch his breath. He realized how much being roughed up had shaken him. No one had ever done anything like that to him. And that useless goddamn Walter. A big fucking waste of money, and now he wanted to bring in another bodyguard. Perfect. Can’t do the job I’m paying you for so now I have to pay for another asshole, while I’m still paying you.

He picked up his home phone and dialed Alan Crane’s number. Crane hadn’t appeared in the office for two days. Not surprising with all the mess he’d created. The phone rang until the outgoing voice mail message came on.

“Call me,” said Milstein as he hung up with a curse. Goddamn Crane never answered his phone.

He stood for a moment in his opulent Park Avenue living room, trying to decide something. Finally, he reached into his desk and fished around for a cheap cell phone he kept there for just an occasion like this. There were three like it in the drawer. His instructions were to use the phones once and throw them away.

He checked the battery. Half full. That would be enough. He pushed the speed dial for a preprogrammed number and waited until the call connected and started to ring. Milstein listened to the phone ring at the other end. And continue to ring.

“Fuck.”

7

Leonid Markov heard his phone vibrating on the side table.

About two hours earlier, he had carefully ingested a combination of Adderall, Viagra, GBH (Gamma-Hydroxybutyric), and DOB (4-bromo-2,5-dimethoxyamphetamine) along with slightly less than a half-pint of Stolichnaya vodka.

A precise amount of each ingredient had been consumed in a precise sequence in preparation for the sex session Markov had planned, ending with the Adderall crushed into a fine powder, placed in a small piece of toilet paper, and swallowed with water.

He knew it was impossible to achieve the exact effect he wanted, but Markov nearly always succeeded in bringing himself to a point where he was teetering between sensory overload and mental chaos.

Leonid Markov simply and always wanted more. Drugs were part of getting more. More sensations, more intensity, more phantasmagoria.

It also made him feel superior to be able to maintain control over the overwhelming sensations brought on by the dangerous combination of chemicals that coursed through his system.

When his phone began vibrating, Markov was naked, on his back, his flabby, 255-pound body splayed on top of a sturdy masseuse table, knees bent, his thick legs tented wide, his heels on the edge of the table while a black transsexual stood at the foot of the table, penetrating him anally with long steady strokes as she squeezed and stroked his erect penis.

For a moment, Markov thought the buzzing sound of the cell phone had something to do with his own moaning and grinding of teeth under the Adderall rush.

But he rallied enough to focus and realized the electronic noise came from the cell phone skittering around on the glass-topped side table next to the king-size bed.

Markov was working on the second orgasm of three he had planned, so he held up one hand, indicating that the prostitute should stop. Calls to his cell phone could not be ignored. They invariably involved money, and of all the things Leonid Markov wanted more of, money was at the very top of his list.

He reached over, picked up the phone. “Who?”

“Milstein.”

Markov grunted, “Call me in five hours.”

Without waiting for a response, he pushed the END button and dropped the phone on the hotel room carpet, turning his attention back to the transsexual.

Markov focused on the black she-male who called herself Natalie. She was beginning to look more masculine, but at the same time less human, more animatronic. Her abdominal muscles flexed and pulsed, looking like a set of dark, three-dimensional metallic plates. The shaved stubble of her pubic hair seemed to flex on the surface of her smooth abdominal skin, reminding Markov of tiny nail heads or rivets. The black wig she wore swayed as if it were made of plastic strands that had been covered in a resin that made each strand heavy and somehow dangerous. Markov suddenly felt that if she bent over and any part of the wig touched him, it would slice through him, cutting back and forth through layers of skin and yellow fat and making him bleed.

Markov avoided looking at her face, which had twisted into something like a mask made of twitching, flat, shining pieces of dark stone. He wanted to focus on her breasts, to turn his attention to something erotic, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from blinking and suddenly watering. Everything began to turn blurry. Her breathing sounded like the hissing spurts that would come out of a steam radiator. Or maybe it was his breathing. Or was it really the hissing of the radiator in the hotel room he had rented in midtown Manhattan?

*   *   *

Milstein checked his watch. He knew calling Markov back and venting his anger in a voice mail would be stupid and dangerous. Five hours. That would mean at about eleven-thirty.

He thought about trying Alan Crane again, but he already knew Crane would ignore him.

No, the hell with Crane, he thought. I’m going straight to Markov. He’d call Markov after he walked the dog.

What the hell was that goddamn Sanchez woman trying to pull? Who was that thug she’d sent?

Milstein slipped the small cell phone into his pocket. He would take it apart and throw away the pieces as he walked the dog.

Milstein took a few steps and sat down on the couch facing his marble fireplace. Now that he was home, now that there was nothing else he could do, Milstein suddenly felt weak and a bit shaky. A drink. He needed a drink.

Milstein walked into his kitchen, turning lights on as he moved toward the back of the apartment. He pulled a bottle of Lagavulin from the kitchen cabinet where he kept his liquor. He pushed glassware around in the kitchen cabinet, looking for a rocks glass, settling for a water glass. Fuck it.

He poured himself two fingers, tipped the glass back, letting the hot, medicinal whiskey fill his mouth and burn into his stomach. He took a deep breath. Returned to his living room.

The dog had decided to join him. The fucking thing is always hanging out in the kitchen with the housekeeper, thought Milstein. She ought to take the damn thing home someday and keep him.

The dog was a large, overfed Airedale named Tam. Another of his wife’s ideas. Not that she did anything to walk it or take care of it. She treated it like another piece of furniture. Cared for by somebody else.

While Milstein had been in the kitchen, Tam had curled up in his oversized Tartan plaid dog bed. Milstein’s wife had picked out the fabric with her decorator at a ridiculously inflated price. After much discussion, the dog’s bed had been placed under the large window facing Seventy-ninth Street, as if the dog and his bed were a design feature.

When Milstein entered the room, the dog lifted his head, stared at Milstein, waiting for an outburst that would send him scurrying out of the room.

Milstein ignored the dog, took another swallow of the expensive Scotch.

Take it easy, Milstein told himself. Again, his thoughts turned to Olivia Sanchez. Why am I surprised? A woman that good-looking could get plenty of men to help her. But that guy? Not her type. Way too rough. Too blue collar. But then again, maybe not. Maybe exactly her type. He wasn’t badly dressed. The coat looked expensive. He spoke well. Goddammit, who the fuck was he?

Milstein took another swig of the Scotch. All right, don’t let it rattle you, he told himself. You’ve got plenty of resources if this gets out of hand. Plenty of people who can handle someone like that. Walter already seems to be figuring out how to deal with him. Too bad that thug didn’t go after Crane. He’s the one who started this mess.

No, thought Milstein. Sanchez would have made it clear to whoever he was that he should go to the top. Although the guy did seem smart enough to figure that out for himself.

Milstein drained his glass and headed back to the kitchen. He looked at an indecipherable lump of food under plastic wrap inside the microwave.

“I’ll be goddamned if I eat that crap.”

He went back to the front hallway, got his coat, and set out to have a sit-down dinner and another Scotch. And think about exactly what he was going to tell Leonard Markov.